


Tales of the Martian Plains

by basaltgrrl



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: AU, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-12
Updated: 2013-10-12
Packaged: 2017-12-29 06:08:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1001907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/basaltgrrl/pseuds/basaltgrrl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Has this been done before?  Surely it has.  And yet I found myself moved to do it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tales of the Martian Plains

A banjo twanged, playing an eerily familiar tune. Sam floated in a void, pleasantly distant from recent memories; the horrendous murders and abductions, the streets of New York ravaged by a scourge. The arrest, the threats. His betrothed. Her ripped bodice found blood-stained, his own agonized desperation. These things all seemed so far away, like a dream.

The carriage, pulled by two maddened horses, careening down the street and running him down...

He sat up, suddenly and completely awake, aware.

A dusty road in the center of a quiet town. Two rows of low, grey buildings. The gold light of morning on the distant hills. The lowing of cattle, hooves rattling on gravel. Something snorted just behind him, bumping his head. He leaped away, to his hands and knees and came face to face with a buckskin horse with a broad blaze, reins trailing on the ground.

"Can I help you, sir?" A calm voice announced the arrival of a lanky figure in a ten-gallon hat.

"This," Sam began, then stammered to a halt. "This isn't my horse."

The newcomer moved to the saddlebags, flipped up the lid. "Says here this horse belongs to Samuel Tyler."

"That's--but, that's my name." Sam scrambled to his feet, swaying, brushing his dusty hands off on his--yes, leather chaps, pale blue button-down shirt with mother of pearl buttons, a gritty gray leather jacket, oh, and there was something on his head... He felt the brim of the hat wonderingly.

"Reckon you ought to come by the station. You get throwed?"

Sam shook his head in sudden panic. "I need to get to New York City!" He did a quick pirouette, scanning the buildings, the sky, the dusty road. "Where's the railroad? Small airplanes? The bloody stagecoach?" Urgency thrummed through him.

"The railroad? Son, there ain't no railroad within a week's ride of here. You just calm down now," and a gentle hand settled on his shoulder, turning him toward the nearest of the nondescript buildings, "and we'll go see the Sheriff, see if we can get this straightened out."

***

They walked up three wooden steps and through a pair of swinging doors, Sam balking all of a sudden at the sight of a half-dozen figures bellied up to the bar. One lanky cowboy did a slow-motion pirouette to give Sam the eye. The others shifted nervously, huddling in groups of two or three. 

"I don't get it," Sam rasped, one hand going to the grip of the pistol holstered at his hip. It felt so natural; how could it all seem so real, so natural? Where was Maya? How was he going to save her?

"You must be the new deputy," drawled a fellow with ice blue eyes and a drooping sandy-colored mustache. "Howdy. Name's Carling."

"Don't touch me." Sam took a step back, feet spread, hand hovering over his pistol. He hadn't meant to do that; it felt like an instictive reaction. A hush fell over the room. "I need to get back to New York City."

He whirled, eyes narrowed, as the swinging doors slammed open and a burly figure appeared in the doorway. There was a murmur all through the room, a sense of anticipation and relief.

"Well, well, well. If it ain't deputy Sam Tyler." The newcomer strode into the room, spurs ringing against the floor. "And just on time, too."

Sam raised an eyebrow in disbelief. "Surprise me," he snarled in return. "What year is it?"

The imposing figure shifted into motion, faster than Sam would have expected, grabbing Sam by the lapels and throwing him back the bar so hard that glassware rattled. "1883. Almost lunchtime. I'm having beans and rice. Welcome to town, my little deputy dawg!"


End file.
